


Autumnal

by SylvanWitch



Series: Blessed Sabbats [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is slowing down, but that doesn't mean he can't keep up with Sam.  They celebrate the Autumnal equinox together in the old, old way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Autumnal

**Author's Note:**

> Mabon, celebrated on the Autumnal equinox, marks the last harvest of green, growing things before the earth grows cold as the winter comes on. The God is growing old, his great sacrifice coming closer with the cold.

The hunt was almost done.

 

He had a few more in him, maybe a half dozen if he were being entirely honest.

 

Some days, that equated to six weeks on the road, seven tops.

 

Others, he admitted that he really meant short jaunts closer to home.  The far-flung evil of the world couldn’t be reached with his old knees unbending beneath the steering wheel, and though Sam would never say it, he couldn’t bear to ride for long, either, his prostate giving him grief, the sun far too bright for his damaged eyes.

  
Too many nights slouched squinting over a laptop, Dean figured.  Just another toll to pay in guilt for the life he hadn’t managed to give his brother.

 

But they were content, mostly, Dean knew.  Sam would never let Dean forget it.  His hand, liver-spotted but still strong, sinewy in age but graceful always, would rest warm on the back of Dean’s neck, as though Sam could bring the palsy under control merely through the heat of his hand, some less-saintly miracle, maybe.

 

Old age and bad circulation hadn’t robbed Sam of that; he could still bring warmth to Dean’s skin by a simple touch.

 

And no matter what the indications on the medicine labels were, Dean never had trouble responding in other ways, either.

 

He smiled to himself now, and Sam beside him must have caught something in Dean’s expression, because he shifted in his chair on the porch of the cabin Sam had finally talked Dean into buying (and truthfully, Dean hadn’t needed much prodding; the older he got, the more he missed a home he’d never had) and said, “Let’s go to the pond.”

 

It took them a little while to get up, and there was a soundtrack of moans of a minor nature and the creaking of bones rubbing old in their sockets, but eventually, the brothers met at the top of the three stairs down to the yard, shoulders brushing, strides still steady as they set out for the path they’d made through the woods to the pond out back.

 

It was late afternoon, an autumn moon already hanging just off the horizon and watching the sun set as though she might keep it back longer if only she yearned hard enough in its direction.

 

The leaves hadn’t quite started to turn, but there was in the air the intense desperation of change, the odor of a forest floor growing dense against the coming snow with old leaves anticipating new blankets.

 

A few inattentive crickets still fiddled against the twilight, as though they could change what was coming by pretending that they weren’t afraid of how cold it was already at night.

 

As they cleared the woods and came out to the sun-warmed banks of the small pond, they were greeted by the last of the summer’s more stubborn flowers, goldenrod bobbing their heavy heads, the umbrellas of Queen Anne’s lace looking ragged from wear, asters still riotous, their yellow centers bursting upward like a reminder that summer would come again someday.

 

Across the pond, cat-tails choked the bank, sending up a steady plume of seeded silk.  They stood together a long moment to watch the skeins of white catch in the breeze and spool out across the far bank.

 

Then Sam lowered himself a little carefully and reached up a hand to steady Dean’s hip as he, too, took his time getting down to the silt-soft edge of the pond.

 

They liked this place for its simplicity, but missed the big bass of the frogs, who had already had the sense to bury themselves deep for the winter.

 

Sam slipped his jacket off, spread it out, laid Dean back on it and leaned over him, tracing his face with a firm hand that never faltered, no matter that it had sixty-six years of use and abuse.  Dean’s hands were never steady, not anymore, and they rarely hunted anything that needed a gun because of it, but he could still reach up and weave his fingers through his brother’s soft, soft hair, could still scrape callused tips across Sam’s lips, which parted in a sigh for Dean’s exploration.

 

Never had they tired of this between them. 

 

Never had the light failed to spark in Sam’s eyes when Dean let him slip his tongue into his older brother’s eager mouth.

 

Never had he given up the little moans Sam sipped from him as he ran his hand beneath Dean’s flannel and enumerated every rib—more prominent, now, but still fine, the bones of his breath rising faster with Sam’s tempting.

 

They took their time, for having less of it every act somehow meant more, though they had never taken this for granted between them.

 

Dean’s hips rose helpfully as Sam slid his jeans from him, skimming his broad palms over the flat of Dean’s belly and molding for a moment around his pelvic bones to press just a little.

 

Dean’s breath hitched, and he shifted his knees apart in an invitation Sam responded to with a wolfish grin so familiar that it made Dean squint to keep something like tears from falling.

 

Sam’s sure fingers slid his own buttons open, worked their way down his button and zipper,  and divested himself of every shred of clothes before he stretched out over Dean.

 

Everywhere they touched, Dean felt a humming under his skin, a sense that he was no longer entirely himself, Sam somehow having become him, too.

 

Dean still wore his flannel, flayed open and falling around him, and Sam leaned on his elbows against that fabric, effectively trapping Dean’s shoulders tight to the earth.  He tried to raise his arms around Sam’s neck and found that he couldn’t, and he gave a little murmur of protest, which Sam promptly ate away from his mouth, following that motion with sucking bites along Dean’s stubbled jaw, down the slope of his neck, across the narrow bone bridge of his collarbone and to the point where his shoulder jutted upward.  This promontory, Sam suckled, sensing the scar beneath his tongue and worrying it.

 

The flesh of it might have been dead for twenty-three years, but Dean could swear he felt a frisson of heat loose from that place and make its straight, sharp way to his belly, where it bloomed like fire in a dry season and sent sparks out along every vein.

 

“Sam,” he whispered, thrusting his hips upward as well as he could, confined as he was by Sam’s pressing weight.

 

“Let me,” his brother whispered in return, tongue laving a line around Dean’s ear and then teeth tightening around the lobe in a nipping kiss.

 

Dean surrendered with a shuddering, “Ye-es,” and Sam returned to the scar he’d been working, sucking in time to the rotation of his hips where he rubbed his hardness just so against Dean’s own aching shaft.

 

The friction was delicious and decidedly inadequate, but Dean was trapped, his breath one long gasp as he tried not to scream, Sam’s tongue driving everything from him but the need to be complete.

 

Sam rose up from his brother then, parting them until they joined only at their mutual hardness, sliding one arm beneath Dean’s shoulders to cup his neck and reaching down between them with the other, wrapping them both in his rough hand, pulling from Dean obscene sounds that echoed over the still pond.

 

Throwing his head back as though to escape from the impossible pleasure of feeling his length moving against Sam’s in the tight compass of his brother’s grip, Dean’s eyes stayed open long enough to see a flight of black crows alight in the trees all around them.  If they spoke, he did not hear them, for his ears were full of the rushing pulse of his heart and the matched gasps of Sam’s need, which burst over Dean’s belly a second before his own heat roared out of him and he went blind, teeth clenching on a scream, neck muscles cording against the intensity of his release.

 

He came back to the sound of laughing, which he first took to be Sam but then realized was the crows calling out raucously, as if in approval of their act.

 

Sam’s eyes shone down on Dean when he was finally able to pry his own open, though the effort cost him a snort from Sam.

 

“I thought I’d lost you there for a minute,” Sam said, eyes smiling, face moving closer for a sloppy, sucking kiss.

 

Dean panted through the pleasure that Sam’s movement brought him, feeling their flaccid members slick between them, phantom orgasm catching him for a shivering minute.

 

“If I gotta go, Sammy, that’s the way I want it to be,” Dean observed, something solemn in his voice despite his wide smile.

 

“I’d have a hell of a time explaining it to the ambulance crew,” Sam continued, ignoring the subtext.  Lately, he didn’t let them talk about Dean’s death.

 

“Ambulance, schmabulance.  My time comes, just wrap me in a sheet and set me on fire, Sam.”

 

Sam nuzzled into Dean’s neck, set his mouth over the steady pulse that beat against his tongue.

 

“Better yet, build a bier, push me out on the pond, and light me up with a flare.”

 

Sam drew Dean’s heartsong gently between his teeth and said nothing.

 

The crows kept up their cawing, and Dean fell silent beneath Sam’s deliberate devotion to every evidence of his continued life.

 

Though they might be cold and stiff for days after, they didn’t speak a word about getting up or going back to the cabin.  Sam shifted to one side, redressed them enough to keep off the worst of the damp that gathered around them on the shore of the pond, and wrapped Dean in his still-strong arms.  Dean shivered deeper into the embrace and smiled against Sam’s chest.

 

Shadows crawled over them, moonlight limning every angle with sharp lines, and still they lay there, kissing lazily, contented, two beneath the autumn moon like effigies of bygone days brought to life again.

 


End file.
